


Darkly Ever After (Epilogue)

by EinahSirro



Series: How King Thorin Got a Slave [7]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst and trauma, Bottom Bilbo, Dark Thorin, Jealous Thorin, M/M, Possessive Thorin, Still not the healthiest of relationships, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two months since they returned to Erebor. Thorin's getting better at listening, observing, caring... spying... brooding...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Day of Spring

Thorin looked down the length of the formal dining table in satisfaction. The feast was succulent, and the candles and torches were flickering. _Everything here, everyone here, is mine,_ he thought. His heirs, Kili and Fili were there. Tauriel, not seated next to Kili (because at dinner, one must have fresh conversation) was next to Legolas. _But even she is mine, really,_ Thorin mused. _In a way. My Elvish healer._ Balin, his steward. Dwalin, his bodyguard. Ori, his little scholar (Thorin had a soft spot for Ori.) Bofur, his hat more battered than ever, back from his adventure with Legolas and looking positively ready to levitate with happiness (Thorin wanted to snort in disdain, but he didn’t.) Bofur was… his… wanderer, Thorin decided. His random particle that could be let to run wild and come back and report his adventures.

Fili stood to offer a toast, and Thorin, barely listening, cocked his kingly head attentively and held his golden goblet aloft at the appropriate minute. _This long, laden table,_ he thought. _Mine._ Bombur, his excellent chef. Nori and Dori, his trustworthy kinsmen. Bifur, his worthy, slightly eccentric palace guard. Gloin, his treasurer. Oin, his boiler-tender. Thorin perused them all in satisfaction. Everyone here was his, except, perhaps, Legolas. He was such a free spirit, even his own father couldn’t claim him. He would be Thorin’s… proof. Proof that he wasn’t gold sick again, for if he was truly mad, that golden-haired Elf would be absolutely irresistible. Thorin eyed the Elf Prince for a moment. He actually did admire the fellow, for his purity of resolve and his surprising simplicity of lifestyle. Allowing Legolas to come and go in Erebor pleased Thorin. Yes. Proof he was not mad.

Finally, Thorin sat back and eyed the self-contained, humble little figure at the end of the table, the recipient of Fili’s toast, blushing modestly, a faint smile playing about his lips. His very own Cosmopolitan Hobbit, artist, consultant, consort, businessman and records keeper, overseer of the gardens, personal valet… lover. Slave whether he knew it or not. Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, so nice to meet you.

Bilbo was dressed in velvets for the formal occasion, celebration of the First Day of Spring, ostensibly, but really a celebration of his formal acknowledgment as King’s Consort. The Hobbit, however, would not consent to any headwear whatsoever. They’d argued about it. 

“You’re my consort, you must have a crown,” Thorin had told him firmly, and Bilbo, is his ever-so-polite way, had never been so overtly difficult as to veto the idea in its entirety. He simply rejected one after the other as either too heavy and “kingly,” or too fragile and feminine until finally, in exasperation, Thorin had commissioned a badge reminiscent of the Durin shield sewn onto a dark green velvet dining jacket. Like a brand. That, Bilbo had conceded to.

But even the jacket had been a struggle, for Thorin had wanted Durin Blue, and Bilbo had held out for Shire Green. In the end, Bilbo won, or rather, Thorin conceded, thinking “I’ll be fucking you later, so wear what you want, for we both know who’ll be face down by midnight.” But he wasn’t so crass as to say it. He just thought it, tipped his head politely, and gave his faintest dark smirk.

And Bilbo did look good in green. So.

“To a re-united Family,” Fili said at the end of the speech (to which Thorin hadn't attended much), holding the goblet aloft. It was a well-chosen ending, Thorin thought, for his nephew’s glance included Bilbo, Tauriel, Legolas, all the Company, but seemed verbally only to be a commentary on the Durin clan. Those who were blood purists could take it as they liked. Those who understood that family is what you make it were pleased as well, and all the golden goblets were lifted.

 _My Family,_ Thorin gloated, _...and my golden goblets._

 

After dinner there was music, for Thorin had closely observed Thranduil’s way of doing things and had scarfed a few ideas. Tauriel, it turned out, could play the harp. It was Thorin’s pleasure to commission a stunning silver harp from Mirkwood for her, as a “wedding present.” He also commissioned a golden one for himself, and he approached Tauriel a week before tonight’s event to query whether she would be willing to play a duet with him.

Her astonishment was almost amusing. But Thorin was an accomplished harp player himself, so the two, in relative secret (in other words, everyone knew except Bilbo, and everyone pretended not to) practiced a rendition of a neutral, well-known folk song.

When the two harps were rolled out, after dinner, and placed near the massive fireplace in the hall, the Company and guests gathered about to stare and murmur in wonder as the beautiful Elf and the striking Dwarf took their seats, opposite from another, and began strumming in vibrating harmony. Silence fell among the guests, and only Bofur, perhaps, noticed Legolas growing very still, and watching with a flat, bleak look in his eye.

Bilbo was glowing with pride and surprise: pride that Thorin overcame both his innate distaste for Elves and his rather masculine resistance to admitting any proficiency in the arts. The music, haunting and insistent, filled the hall, swelling and speeding up until it seemed like a pounding heart, or horses’ hooves, and a burbling brook, and the music of song birds. The Company was enthralled. Even Dwalin nodded along, till he saw Bilbo watching. Then he scowled and assumed a stoic air.

When the song was ended, and the applause had surged and died, Thorin left his harp and Tauriel remained to pluck gentle background music to fill the air for the remainder of the evening. Bofur approached the other harp, and after studying the Elf maid’s fingerings, eventually figured out a simple pattern he could strum that harmonized with hers. It was only four chords, but his instinct for which of the four would suit was rather cunning. Several Dwarfs gathered round and accused him of taking secret lessons, but Bofur only grinned, and concentrated on which chord to play next. Legolas drifted to the far edge of the crowd and stared away into the distance, but he noticed Bofur’s efforts, and appreciated them. 

Thorin resumed his seat at the dining table, eschewing the formality of his nearby throne in favor of the heavily carved wooden chair that he could turn easily to regard the celebratory air of the evening. The ale was flowing pretty freely, for Balin was in charge, and although the old Dwarf was careful with his own imbibing, he was generous with everyone else. Really, Thorin mused, Balin was rather like Dain. And Thranduil, now that he thought about it. None of them seemed much alike until one observed them operating behind the curtains, eyes watchful, ears alert, calm and observant. Thorin was aware that increasingly, as king, he did more watching than anything else. Elrond came to mind. Was this what kings did, he wondered? Watch? Listen? If so….

Thorin narrowed his observation to Balin, and watched how the old Dwarf monitored the scene, very much as he himself was doing. On an impulse, Thorin rose from his seat and ambled over to his steward.

“Aye, Laddie,” Balin said automatically, his eyes still watching over the evening’s festivities like a watchful shepherd.

“Are you happy, Balin?” Thorin asked him abruptly.

Startled, the old Dwarf glanced up at him. “Aye, why?”

Thorin regarded him for a moment longer. “Do you feel… that you are respected as you should be?”

Balin blinked several times in surprise. “I do! What made ye ask?”

Thorin heaved a breath and turned to stand at Balin’s side and peruse the gamboling, milling party. “I just… I see how much work you do.”

“Ah,” said Balin knowingly. There was silence for a moment.

Thorin turned back to Balin and said seriously, “If ever anything happens to me, will you advise Fili?”

Balin swelled with pride. “I will.” He said sturdily.

Thorin clasped his shoulder, nodded, and then withdrew to continue his surveillance of his kingdom. Balin watched him go, nodding slightly to himself. Was Thorin completely free of the obsessive possessiveness inherent in the Durin line? Ha! No, not a bit. He was brooding and gloating like a beaver on a finished dam. But he was much more self-aware and alert than his predecessors had been, of that Balin was assured. And really, a king who was slightly mad? This wasn’t so bad. Full on madness was a problem, but so was being terribly civilized. In Balin’s opinion, Elrond only survived because he was surrounded by mountains. Too civilized by half, those Rivendell Elves. But Thorin and Thranduil were both just a bit mad, and it served them well. Never let your enemies think you are too normal, Balin believed. He turned and gestured to one of the servants for more ale. 

Thorin watched the evening continue until, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of green velvet making for the stairs heading to the terraces. Turning, he watched Bilbo, with a slightly furtive air, departing from the party. Ambling slowly after him, Thorin nodded calmly at anyone who caught his eye, and drifted away up the stairs as casually as one can when one is King.


	2. First Night of Spring

Bilbo shivered in the cold breeze on the terraces. Spring was in the air, but it wasn’t here yet. The terraces were still lying fallow, and the full moon shown on every rock and crevice, creating dark shadows between the bright surfaces. Bilbo stood on the rock and strained to see if any crows nearby were hopping about with a message to deliver. It wasn’t long before Chiprock, as Thorin called him, came sailing over Bilbo’s head to land on a rock and do his teasing little dance.

Bilbo hopped down and approached, his hand full of nuts and grains, and a few raisins. They were his secret ingredient to getting crow love. Chiprock fluttered delightedly at the offering and pecked cheerfully away while Bilbo removed the scroll from his scaly leg. It was from King Elrond.

_The Koi are fine but I think they miss you. Your rooms are always here if you need them. I understand Gandalf plans a visit soon. –E_

The Hobbit pocketed the note thoughtfully. He and Elrond had kept up a… not a secret correspondence, no. Nothing so interesting as that. But they did… update one another regularly (thus Bilbo described it to himself.) It was something the Hobbit did to keep himself reassured that if ever he needed, that is, if some sort of emergency threatened… he scratched his head meditatively. He just needed to know that he was not completely alone in the world. Of course, he had Thorin, and he loved Thorin, and Thorin loved him, Bilbo would have said quickly – had anyone asked.

But Thorin had a great many responsibilities, for one, and for another… well… it was not always wise to have all one’s happiness depend entirely upon another person. Perhaps that was the best way to put it. Suppose Thorin were to… become insecure and suspicious again? Or have another bout of gold fever? Or simply get a little too carried away with his “Mine” and his “King” business? Not that Bilbo thought he would.

But if he did, well. It was nice to know that someone somewhere remembered the existence of a lone little Hobbit, and cared. Once one has been a slave, and a captive, one never quite feels safe again in this world.

Chiprock hopped about a bit, indicating a willingness to carry a return message, but Bilbo simply tipped him a few more nuts and seeds and raisins, and then headed for the door. He didn’t notice the silent figure watching him from the shadows behind a nearby boulder. The crow did, and gave a raucous squawk, flapping his wings at Thorin’s shadow, but Bilbo did not understand the hint.

“What? You want more treats? More and more?” He asked humorously, and came back to dump a few more out on the rock. “That’s in, then. No more tonight. You’ll be too fat to fly!”

Chiprock, distracted by the treats, did not attempt another warning, and Bilbo entered the tunnel back into Erebor, unaware of Thorin quietly following from a safe distance.

 

Once inside the royal chambers, Bilbo shed his heavy velvet coat wearily and hung it up. He glanced around, checking to see what tidying he should do before turning in, but other than a quick sweep of the hearth, and a few pokes at the fire burning there, all was in readiness for the morrow. The Hobbit decided that a long, hot bath was in order. Thorin would undoubtedly be down in the royal hall enjoying the celebration of the First Day of Spring for some hours.

First day of Spring indeed, thought Bilbo wryly. There was still snow on the ground.

In the bathing chamber, he watched the tub fill with water, the steam drifting up in the cool air.

Thorin entered the royal chambers quietly, seeing the lights and steam, and hearing the hot water rushing in the bathing chambers. He slid his armor and furs off carefully and laid them aside with little noise. Then he removed his boots. He waited till he heard his Hobbit splashing happily in the hot tub before he began his careful search of the pockets of the hanging velvet jacket.

Yes, there it was. Elrond again. My, they did keep up a steady stream of notes to one another, Thorin thought. At least one every two weeks. Nothing to take offense to, of course. “Legolas has returned, and will likely visit soon. Bofur looks no worse for wear.” and “Ori found some very old maps in the library! I’ll show Legolas when he visits.”

A more innocuous correspondence could not be imagined, but it grated on Thorin that Bilbo never, ever mentioned it. Never said a word about writing to Elrond. Clearly, the Rivendell King was Bilbo’s little security blanket: an escape hatch should the Dwarf ever become too intense in his loving … or his ruling.

Thorin inhaled deeply through his nose and replaced the note carefully. Then he opened the door to the corridor and signaled to the guard to send for a last pot of hot tea. No matter how late it was, Bilbo liked a spot of tea before bed. Thorin maintained his stealthy presence in the royal chambers until the tea was delivered, and then he let the door shut loudly, and set the tea service on the table with a goodly thump.

After a moment, the king entered the bathing chambers, rolling his sleeves up, and stared down at his flushed, pink Hobbit, whose golden curls were especially tight in the steam.

“If you soak much longer, you’ll be a prune,” he said.

Bilbo smiled up at him. “Just making sure I’m very clean and relaxed in case… I need to be.”

Thorin gave a little smirk and tossed a folded towel down on the floor next the tub, and knelt on it. “Shall I scrub your back for you?” He asked attentively.

Bilbo brightened. It was rare that Thorin attended him in this way. “That would be very nice,” he said, and leaned forward to let the king scrub his back thoroughly. It felt wonderful. When he was finished soaping up his Hobbit (and Thorin made sure to clean every crevice), he helped Bilbo from the steamy bath and wrapped him up in another towel.

“Do you remember when I used to feed you?” He asked quietly, rubbing the warm skin with the towel.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, gazing up at his king adoringly. “But we’ve already eaten.”

“Mm,” Thorin agreed, and then scooped the Halfling up and carried him out to the fireplace. “But tea.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said, happily settling in Thorin’s lap and watching as the king stirred sugar into a cup of tea for him.

They cuddled comfortably in front of the fireplace for some time, Bilbo finishing his tea and settling drowsily in his king’s arms. Thorin held him tightly, gazing down at the still damp curls. He was torn between two conflicting desires. 

One was to quietly continue to spy on Bilbo’s correspondence with Elrond, and discern all he could from it without anyone knowing the source of his information. For instance… Gandalf was going to pay a visit? That was worth knowing, for Thorin never quite got over the uneasy feeling that Gandalf regarded Middle Earth much the same way Thorin regarded Erebor. He could almost imagine the old wizard staring about the countryside, thinking “My woodland Elves, my mountain Dwarfs, my Lakeside humans,” and chuckling to himself about his ability to suggest their courses in life, and summon eagles to move them about as needed. It always lurked in Thorin’s mind that to Gandalf, Bilbo stayed with Thorin only as long as the wizard felt it was not detrimental. That the old sage retained the right to interfere at the drop of his filthy gray hat.

The other desire, of course, was to lean down and whisper, “Isn’t there something you want to tell me?” And let the confrontation run its course, for of course Bilbo would deny it, and of course Thorin had all the evidence he needed to turn that denial into a case for a punishment. And not entirely a playful one, for Thorin was resentful of the secrecy. But it had been such a peaceful two months since they had returned. Bilbo had been increasingly happy and relaxed.

Not at first, no. Their initial return had gone smoothly, but the Hobbit was watchful and quiet, and had a tendency to startle easily. Only the raucous welcome of the Dwarfs and the continued loving attentions of his King had gradually softened the brittle wall he’d fashioned for himself in Rivendell, and finally returned him to the cheerful, busy, occasionally cheeky lover that Thorin craved.

But something was stirring in the Dwarf King’s gut that would not be satisfied without touching upon this issue.

“Are you quite recovered from this afternoon?” Thorin asked after a moment.

Bilbo stirred sleepily and blinked, “What? Oh—“ he blushed. “Yes, quite. It doesn’t hurt, you know. It just feels… odd. But when it’s over it’s rather nice to know that—“

“That you’re all clean inside?” Thorin whispered suggestively in the pointed ear.

Bilbo squirmed a bit and didn’t answer, hiding his face in Thorin’s chest.

The Dwarf heaved himself from the chair and carried his lover to the bed. “I think we should celebrate the First Day of Spring,” he said, placing the Hobbit on the bed and disrobing. Bilbo stretched out luxuriously, the towel falling away from him.

“How shall we do that?” He asked.

Thorin reached for the blue bottle. “I think you should just lie face down and let me decide.”

Bilbo rolled over obligingly and Thorin admired his round buttocks for a moment, oiling his hands thoroughly. Then he began massaging them, digging his thumbs well in, and squeezing, enjoying the sight of the pale flesh bulging between his fingers. Soon those cheeks were rosy pink and glowing. Bilbo spread out with a contented sigh, only shifting from time to time to accommodate his growing hardness trapped beneath him.

When his lover was well-oiled, Thorin lay down, pulled Bilbo on top of him, and cradled him tight in one arm while the other reached down to slide between his lover’s buttocks and begin pressing ever so gently with one finger. Bilbo undulated against him with a little moan and let his legs fall to straddle Thorin’s hips. The Dwarf worked one thick finger in and immediately began inserting a second.

Bilbo bit his lip, hiding his face in Thorin’s hair. The King worked intently, and the only sound was their breathing, and the occasional gasp from the Hobbit as the large fingers pressed in deeper, and twisted, invading without either haste or retreat. Thorin added a third finger and shifted Bilbo around slightly for a better angle, his face stern with concentration.

When Bilbo was utterly pliant and dizzy with desire, Thorin added a fourth finger and began pushing as if he intended to go even further. Sweating, the Hobbit bit his lips again and gave a whimper. It… almost hurt, but not quite. It was intense and a little frightening. 

“You trust me?” Thorin whispered.

Bilbo nodded, but his hands were gripping the sheets and his eyes were squeezed closed. Thorin backed off, removing his fingers from the warm cleft and adding more oil to them. Then he greased up his own ready length and mounted his Hobbit, positioning himself at the quivering opening, and after a waiting moment, pressing in with a sigh of pleasure. That first push in was his favorite. They both gave a groan as Thorin slowly speared his captive to the hilt. When he was completely buried in his warm lover, he moved his hips in short, hard thrusts, pushing upward against the cushion of the round cheeks.

“Leg up,” he directed huskily, and Bilbo drew one leg up obligingly so that Thorin could slide his hand down in the slight hollow and grasp Bilbo’s hungry erection, and caress it in tune to his thrusts. Bracing himself with his other hand on the bed near Bilbo’s shoulder, Thorin worked over him steadily, watching with satisfaction as the Halfling arched his back and writhed beneath him. He pounded harder, driving Bilbo into his gripping hand.

“Arms up,” he growled, and Bilbo immediately obeyed with a little whimper of submission. Thorin moved slightly to thrust from a higher angle and Bilbo gave a cry of pleasure. Yes, that was the angle. Thorin burrowed into him without mercy, plundering with a steady rhythm until finally the Hobbit began twisting convulsively under the heavy weight of his king, spurting helplessly into the rough hand that cradled him. Thorin rode him until he was limp and gasping, and then allowed himself to grip Bilbo’s hip, yank him up against his own groin, and grind his own release into his panting captive.


	3. First Fright of Spring

The fire in the hearth was burning low when they both stirred themselves to clean up a bit, and pull on nightshirts in a nod to propriety should any emergency require the King of Erebor in the dead of night.

When they were comfortably settled, Thorin wrapped his arms around Bilbo, spooning him from behind. “You smell good,” he rumbled into the pointed ear.

“Mmm,” Bilbo murmured sleepily, enjoying the warm arms around him.

“It wouldn’t take long before I could do that again,” Thorin said.

Bilbo gave a little chuckle, “Don’t know if I could take another round of that tonight,” he admitted.

Thorin nuzzled his ear. “No?”

“Well,” Bilbo admitted, “I am a bit… um…. Sore now.”

Thorin caressed him slowly. “It is best to be honest.”

Bilbo was silent, not understanding that sudden statement.

“If you are truly in pain, it would be cruel to take you again. If, on the other hand, you were merely a bit tender… I can remember times I bent you over, spanked you red, and took you again. And you loved it.”

Bilbo felt a tinge of arousal curl in his belly at the words, and the memories.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“So, are you truly unable to bear another assault?”

“I—I—um…” Bilbo stammered.

“You sometimes have difficulty being honest, do you not?” Thorin asked coolly.

Bilbo rolled over and looked at him, puzzled. “I don’t know, I… are you angry with me about something?”

“Should I be?” Thorin asked him seriously.

Bilbo lay, looking up at the harsh features by the light of the fire. The little scroll tucked in his velvet jacket suddenly weighed upon his conscience just a bit. “No,” he managed.

“Nothing you want to tell me?” Thorin pressed.

Bilbo’s heart sped up, and Thorin, placing a hand on the Hobbit’s chest, felt it. Their eyes locked.

Finally, Bilbo said, “I feel like… is there something you want to talk about or are you just fishing?”

Thorin raised his eyebrows. “Fishing. Interesting that you use that term.”

Bilbo was definitely uneasy now. He drew away from Thorin a bit. “I don’t know what you’re alluding to.”

“Alluding. Ah, now there’s pillow talk,” Thorin said, sliding his hand down Bilbo’s ribs, not allowing him to sidle away. “Perhaps I’m fishing. Perhaps I want to catch a nice, gold … what were those fish you liked so much in Rivendell?”

Instantly, Bilbo understood that Thorin had seen Elrond’s note. Without a further thought in his head, he lunged for the edge of the bed, wanting only escape, and space. Thorin instinctively pounced on him, grappling him back roughly. They wrestled ardently for a moment, but Bilbo was hopelessly outclassed, and Thorin wondered even as he pinned the panicked Hobbit on the bed ruthlessly… why did he even bother struggling?

“Let me go, let me go,” Bilbo whispered mindlessly, eyes unfocused.

“No…. no…. there’s nowhere you are going,” Thorin said firmly, using his full weight to smother the struggles, his hands clamping like vises on the Hobbit’s wrists.

Bilbo’s panic did not subside, but turned into convulsive thrashing for a moment, and then stopped. He didn’t relax, he merely stopped. Then, even as Thorin watched, his Hobbit’s eyes fixed on some point on the far side of the ceiling and his face took on a dead, rigid stare. _Too much,_ Thorin realized suddenly. 

Immediately, the king released Bilbo’s wrists and he lifted his weight off of the smaller figure. But he kept close, bringing one hand up to the gold curls. He stroked them gently for a moment, but there was no response. Carefully, Thorin folded Bilbo’s arm across his torso and maneuvered the Hobbit onto his side, spooning him again. He curled around him, as before, touching but not gripping. Warm, but not smothering. He moved his legs so that he was no longer pinning his lover to the bed. Then, once arranged, he held very still. He didn’t speak, or do anything insistent. He waited, remembering Legolas offering his arm and asking Bilbo if he’d like a turn about the gardens. Thorin was no Elf, but he understood now that he could neither force Bilbo out of his shell when this sort of reaction occurred, nor withdraw and leave him there, hoping for the best. So he curled around his Hobbit and waited.

For nearly half an hour, Bilbo stared off into the darkness near the fireplace. Finally, he stirred slightly. Thorin moved slightly too, as if responding, or mirroring. Bilbo turned his head a bit toward his king, and the Dwarf pressed his lips gently to the curls, but made no other movement or sound. Bilbo pulled one wrist away from Thorin’s hand, and the king simply placed his hand very carefully on Bilbo’s upper arm, not gripping, just responding.

When Bilbo took a deep breath, Thorin gave him another short nuzzle. 

They lay this way for a few more minutes, Bilbo blinking at the fireplace, Thorin watching him silently, closely.

When the Hobbit carefully rolled onto his back, his lover made room for him with a slight shift, and looked into his eyes without a word. Bilbo met his gaze for a moment, and then looked back toward the fire. Thorin waited, and eventually his Halfling looked back at him. The king gave his arm another caress and then waited.

In this careful way, almost like a dance, Bilbo came back to him, and Thorin restrained himself and concentrated on meeting every glance and movement without force but with definite responsiveness. Finally, Bilbo turned to him and put his face against Thorin’s chest, and let his king wrap him up again.

“Why not just… just tell me you knew?” Bilbo finally mumbled.

“Waiting for you to tell me yourself.” Thorin whispered.

Bilbo shook his head miserably.

“You never would have, then?” Thorin guessed, with a touch of bitterness.

Bilbo shook his head again, and Thorin felt his faint trembling. He cuddled his Hobbit closer. “Foolish little thing,” he said quietly. “I will always find out.”

“I just wanted to feel like—“

“You had some escape from me,” Thorin finished.

“No. No, only if… I just…”

Thorin sighed. “Even if I made promises, you would never feel truly safe again.”

“…No one is really safe in this world,” Bilbo whispered broodingly.

Thorin wrapped himself more tightly around his Hobbit. “I suppose not,” he admitted. “But your safety is very important to me.” Then he buried his bearded face in the warm neck and kissed it, stroking the tender back gently. He wasn’t pleased to know that Bilbo was still so uneasy. But he was pleased with himself for two reasons. One was that he had let his lover know: I know your secret. He could have kept the knowledge to himself, hoarding it, and using it. But he hadn’t. The other was that he recognized the beginnings of another shut down and managed NOT to push Bilbo over the edge again.

 _I am getting better,_ he told himself. 

Bilbo, meanwhile felt himself sinking into a defeated sleep. _He knows. I have no escape plan now._ But the feeling wasn’t as terrifying as it might have been. _I’m getting worse,_ he thought to himself with a hint of bitter amusement, tightening his clutch around Thorin’s waist. _I embrace my doom happily,_ he smiled sadly to himself. Definitely a Took.

Bilbo drifted off to sleep, but Thorin lay awake a while longer, holding his lover gently, and gloating. _Mine._

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Epilogue for those who like this work.


End file.
